"This is his presence now."

At the king's gate, the crafty noon Unwove its yellow nets of sun; Out of their sleep in terror soon The guards waked one by one.

"Ho there! Ho there! Has no man seen The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead.

H. H.

_December_

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy!

But were there ever any Writhed not at pa.s.sed joy?

To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.

JOHN KEATS.

_The End of the Play_

The play is done; the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell.

It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas time.

On life's wide scenes you, too, have parts, That Fate ere long shall bid you play; Good-night! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with ah honest heart.

Who misses, or who wins the prize?

Go, lose or conquer as you can: But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray G.o.d, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young!

(Bear kindly with my humble lays;) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days: The shepherds heard it overhead-- The joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men.

My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.

As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still-- Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

_From "Dr. Birch and his Young Friends."_

_A Farewell_

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do n.o.ble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

_A Boy's Prayer_

G.o.d who created me Nimble and light of limb, In three elements free, To run, to ride, to swim: Not when the sense is dim, But now from the heart of joy, I would remember Him: Take the thanks of a boy.

HENRY CHARLES BEECHING.

_Chartless_

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be.

I never spoke with G.o.d, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.

EMILY d.i.c.kINSON.

_Peace_

My soul, there is a country, Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry, All skilful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend, And (O my soul, awake!) Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of peace, The rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure, But One who never changes, Thy G.o.d, thy Life, thy Cure.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

_Consider_

Consider The lilies of the field, whose bloom is brief-- We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.

Consider The sparrows of the air, of small account: Our G.o.d doth view Whether they fall or mount-- He guards us too.

Consider The lilies, that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair-- What profits all this care, And all this coil?

Consider The birds, that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; G.o.d gives them food-- Much more our Father seeks To do us good.